How Bromantic
by Detective Obvious
Summary: Rewrite of the Buckingham Palace scene 2x01: "How would you know?" John can tell that Mycroft has struck an open wound. The solution? Imply that he and Sherlock are a couple. Gen bromance/can be seen as preslash  repost/accidently deleted ;-;
1. In which it all began

**13/01/2012: So it appears I may be retarded. I wasn't paying attention and sort of deleted the story trying to edit it ;-; yeh.  
>The second chapters on my USB somewhere far away so I'll update that in a day or two and then a new chapter to make up for my stupidity <strong>

**Just because I felt sorry for Sherlock in that scene .. and because the bromance between Sherlock and John makes me believe this could of maybe have happened :3**  
><strong>Pure bromance although it <em>could<em> be seen as preslash - I ship them together but I just think the story works better with it being friendship.**

**Yep.**

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><p>John raised his teacup to his lips, allowing himself to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He was listening of course, since undoubtedly <em>he<em> would be the one running around after Sherlock, giving medical opinion, grappling serial killers and consoling whatever poor fool unfortunate enough to fall into Sherlock's verbal line of fire. John had no desire, however, to be caught up in the fiery pit of petty rivalry that was Mycroft and Sherlock. There was also currently not enough tea on hand for him to risk asking any questions in exchange for a dressing down of his intelligence from both Holmes brothers. Besides, he was drinking tea in bloody Buckingham Palace, across from a man who embodied the British Government. Case be damned, he was at the peak of British-ness and he was going to savour it.

"Dominatrix," repeated Sherlock, the foreignness of the word hanging thick on his tongue.

"Don't be alarmed, it's to do with sex," replied Mycroft swiftly, recognising a point of weakness.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock shifted, "Sex doesn't alarm me."

Too fast. His vulnerability exposed.

Mycroft smiled with a smug satisfaction, "How would you know?"

This was when John decided to break his pact of inconspicuousness.

He had always been good at reading people, but being able to read Sherlock Holmes was something he prided himself on. The detective was so naturally _unreadable_ that one had to reach a certain level of acceptance from the man before having even the slightest idea of what he was feeling, something John was acutely aware of as one of the very small number of individuals having reached this level.

The doctor was also aware of the fact that, although his egotistical pride would never see him admit it, Sherlock's vanity took credence over his hatred, allowing some merit to the words of his brother as a _Holmes_; one with the gift of logic and bereft of the burden of sentiment.

The fact was, Mycroft had struck an open wound, Sherlock was hurt, and John was witnessing the event.

Throwing all caution to the wind, because _goddammit _Sherlock against all odds had become something akin to his platonic version of a soul mate, Mycroft had more of an annoying power complex than Sherlock and sod it, half the world thought they were shagging anyway, John set his teacup down with a firm 'clink'.

"Actually," he began, silently cursing the detective, the human form of the British Government and their bloody sibling rivalry, "I'm pretty sure he does know. In fact, I'm just going to confirm it for you."

The silence that followed was delicate.

Mycroft, caught unguarded, faltered in his path, an occurrence that happened so rarely it only served to further incriminate him, leaving the older Holmes brother staring wide-eyed at John, who in turn had responded by coolly leaning back, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

Sherlock had remained impassive in expression, although John could feel his body tense slightly, his eyes casually flickering once towards the doctor with a flash of uncertainty, the exact image of when he was unsure about how to proceed with a particular social protocol.

Harry, the stand in for the client, shifted uncomfortably.

The army doctor, doing well to school his voice to emulate confidence instead of nervousness, smiled.

"Mycroft, you look like I've just told you he's a Sicilian illegal art dealer. I mean, under the circumstances, is it really that surprising?"

Sherlock felt the right corner of his mouth tug slightly. Sicilian illegal art dealer. _Of course._ Brilliant, loyal, surprising, desperately moral John, placing himself in an undesirable situation to give one to Mycroft and defend what Sherlock reluctantly admitted was possibly his supposed _emotions _slipping up. 'Sicilian illegal art dealer' was a reference to one of their past cases, one that involved an indifferent Sherlock and a highly sulky John going under the disguise of a homosexual couple. The detective inwardly smiled, careful to remain impassive on the outside to deflect his brother from the knowledge that he had only just become a player in the game. _Clever John. _

Mycroft, thoroughly disliking the feeling of being having been switched out of the upper hand, frowned, carefully studying the parties in front of him. This area however, the area of _sentiment_, much less sentiment involving his brother, was uncharted territory.

Ignoring his discomfort, Mycroft Holmes regained his composure. He did not control multiple important factions of the British government and hold considerable influence over several others for nothing.

"My dear doctor, I've read your file. I know more about _John Watson_than you do, or should I say John 'three continents' Watson?"

John creased his brow lightly. He hadn't been known by that by anyone other than his small platoon in Afghanistan, and certainly not by anyone of any high standing. Information like that he would have thought would have been scarce to successfully document.

Mycroft continued, smug in that he had managed to gain some equal footing.

"A man of your history, with clear capability and charm, an aversion to long-term relationships and able to what was it again? Attain kisses from three separate entities whilst doing a pass through of a minor province in France, convince a supposedly homosexual female to engage in a romantic relationship in Australia, be the cause of a fight between two women in a Japanese bar and other _delightful_ stories I'm sure, as well as being able to claim the moniker of 'three continents' chooses to settle down with my baby brother?"

Scoffing, Mycroft lifted his head in victory, "Hardly."

Sherlock shot a petulant glare towards his brother although not without a hint of uneasiness.

Mycroft's words, aimed to discredit an intimate relationship, nevertheless raised a separate possibility. John Watson was different, yes, set aside from the dull, inane drones of society. But he was also so very human, considered normal in respects that Sherlock never could be and was thus able to affiliate himself with whom he pleased. John Watson was Sherlock's only choice in friend. Sherlock Holmes was not John Watsons.

John, sensing his flatmates hesitance and the expanding ego of his brother, jumped in before a verbal war between the two could ensue. Sherlock, he knew, needed reassurance. Mycroft needed a thorough kick off his pedestal.

"I don't know if you recall Mycroft," said the doctor, nonchalantly straightening his jacket, "but the first time we met it was you who told me that I craved the danger of the battlefield. It's not just the _excitement_, the danger that you can feel by just standing in the same room as Sherlock, it's everything about him. I would follow Sherlock Holmes into the depths of hell. You may not be used to the idea of someone caring about a Holmes brother, but you don't get to tell me that your 'baby brother' doesn't."

Sherlock smiled with a rarely seen degree of warmth, eyes conveying a silent 'thank you' to his dear blogger, not play acting as the other man in this homosexual relationship, but genuinely to a friend.

As a stark contrast, Mycroft twisted his mouth into a frown. It was not often that one stumbled the great Mycroft Holmes. This would not be one of those times.

"John Hamish Watson, born in London to an Anne and Hamish Watson? Sent to a boarding school in the countryside at the mere age of eight."

The doctor stiffened. "Yes?"

"Father died of terminal lung cancer at the age of ten, although you never cared for him did you, what with all the drinking and the bruises on your mother and sister. Mother remarried twice, prompting your expulsion from your boarding school when you hospitalised an older boy by the name of Terry Dresden for calling your mother a 'whore'. Fast forward ten years you have your heart broken by Mary Morstan, a woman you had intended to engage in marriage and one who left you for a higher standing man who promised more than a mere doctor. You join to army to escape her and your alcoholic sister, cue your fraternising with fellow soldier Bill Murray and _oh_," drawled the older Holmes brother, "the Afghanistan incident of Peter Summers."

John blanched, feeling far too exposed.

Impervious to the low warning growl, Mycroft turned towards his brother.

"Ah yes, now how much of that did you know about the good doctor? Please, he is no more in an intimate relationship with I than he is with you."

Adding insult to injury, Mycroft motioned for the nearby maid who had kept to the door out of both respect and fear.

"Lemon crisp, doctor?" proffered Mycroft, selecting one of the biscuits off the artfully arranged platter.

"Actually," said Sherlock, his deep baritone severing all pretences of resolution in the room, "John prefers jammy dodgers. Did they not have that in that piddly file of yours or was that section located across the room of which there were too many obstacles in your path for you to simply roll yourself over to retrieve?"

Despite himself, John snorted ungracefully, thoroughly enjoying the scene.

The detective stood, pulling up his flatmate in the process by grabbing onto his hand.

"Don't call me next time one of your drones creates a boring little problem."

Sherlock turned to leave with a half-giggling John in tow before turning back suddenly and picking up the silver platter laden with biscuits.

"Consider this my fee for putting up with you and a favour on my behalf. You certainly don't need the temptations in front of you. Now if you don't mind we're going to head home and finish what we started before you chose to rear your ugly head."

Mycroft let out an involuntary splutter.

"You weren't even at the flat together!"

"Irrelevant," countered Sherlock, "the investigation interrupted our doings and you interrupted the investigation; ergo, you interrupted us."

John coughed, picking up the forgotten bed sheet folded neatly on the floor.

Reddening, Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, "You mean as to say.. the reason for your attire this morning.."

Sherlock smirked, placing an arm around the doctor.

"Oh yes."

Outside, the two had managed to make it to a nearby bench before collapsing into a fit of laughter.

"Oh god," gasped John, wiping a tear from his face, "his face when he thought we were buggering."

"Completely worth the ridiculous ruse," replied Sherlock with a resounding boom of laughter, "Of course it won't take him long to figure it out."

"That.. thing you did John," continued the detective, voice cheerful with the remnants of laughter but calm, "that was good. Thank you."

"S'alright, he needed a good taking down. The amount of times he's kidnapped me.," John frowned in mock disapproval.

Sherlock mimicked his expression, "Oh the inanities of your life John Watson," prompting the two to start giggling again.

"I still can't believe we fooled a Holmes."

Sherlock shrugged, smiling happily, "No one can fool Mycroft Holmes. That is, unless I've had a hand in it."

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><p><strong>I don't usually write so I hope that wasn't too unbearable :)<strong>

**I might continue with little one shots or an actual story if anyone's interested - like Mycrofts revenge etc etc n_n up to what you guys think.**

**So continue or no?**


	2. In which Mycroft exacts his revenge

**(14/01/12 Well, here's the chapter that I uploaded a few days ago and then deleted ;-; thanks to those newly reviewed and those who reviewed again.. still, I miss my thirty reviews for two chapters XD oh well, serves me right for being stupid)**

**First of all, thank you for all the reviews :) didn't expect all the positive replies at all. Here's a second chapter as promised - it's not as long and mostly dialogue. The updates are just going to be little one-shots in this verse so they might turn out to be longer, analytical pieces or short, dialogue fuelled ones like this.**

**Wow, I never know how to end this author note things :/**

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><p>It takes Mycroft exactly twenty three minutes and the legwork of a covert faction of the British Government to definitively conclude that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are not in a romantic relationship.<p>

The elder Holmes sighed, flippantly dropping the conclusive report onto the mahogany table. He supposed that it would not be uncalled for, in this singular case, for him to take partial fault, having failed to register the many indications of the good Doctor's frankly poorly-constructed ploy. The quick twist of a lip, the flicker of a hand. It was all too obvious now.

His brother's involvement, he mused entertainingly, was perhaps not entirely uncharacteristic. Sherlock was petty. As the older sibling, he was most certainly not. Still, as a _representation of the British Government_, it would simply not do to encourage this behaviour.

One does not engage Mycroft Holmes in folly.

**xxx**

**Text received: 08:26  
>From: Gregory Lestrade<strong>

_Double homicide – several witnesses,  
>all with different accounts of killer.<br>Stumped, interrogation at the Yard?_

John approached Scotland Yard with a mixture of relief and trepid excitement he admittedly placed as a 'bit not good'. He felt, however, that in his case it was entirely justifiable. The Universe owed him. There had been a lull in underground London of "interesting" criminal activity, resulting in a week of increasingly ridiculous exploits and what John regretfully referred to as the Cludedo incident. Like a visual representation of what had been the atmosphere of 221B, the board game hung jack-knifed to their mantelpiece, courtesy of the mutual anger of both flatmates (Sherlock, at the game for being illogical and rendering the powers of deduction far from applicable as was otherwise promised to him, and John, at the creators of Cluedo for _creating Cluedo _and making it possible for him to introduce the game to bloody Sherlock Holmes).

The text from Lestrade was more than welcomed.

_Ding_

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, the Doctor looked at the text message on the screen.

**Text received: 08:42  
><strong>**From: Mycroft Holmes**

_Congratulations._

_MH_

Frowning, John looked up to see Sherlock doing the same.

"Text message from Mycroft?"

Waving a hand dismissively, Sherlock reached for the heavy glass door to Scotland Yard with fervour.

"Ignore it. No doubt he's figured out our little ruse the other day by now and has done something to irritate me, like presenting me with an earldom again or bribing you with the same to inconvenience me. Either way, Mycroft is dull, a double homicide and a chameleon killer is Thanksgiving and Christmas all at once. Come on, John!"

John scoffed, following Sherlock through the doors. Of course, he would see being given the title of an _earl_ as a chore.

The first thing that makes John suspect that there is no double homicide is the loud cheer and confetti that rain down upon he and Sherlock as they enter Scotland Yard. The second is the _bloody banner_ that hangs breezily from the ceiling with the word 'congratulations' in large, stand-out letters.

The Doctor looks to Sherlock for a logical, deducted explanation. At the same time, the consulting detective looks to John for an explanation of whatever social convention he seems to be missing.

"The men of the hour, congratulations!"

Confused, John allowed his hand to be shaken by the Detective Inspector. Sherlock however, met Lestrade's hand with a glare.

"Where is my double homicide?"

Lestrade ignored him, enthusiasm unfaltering.

"Your brother told us. Was a bit of a right surprise but I guess we all saw the signs, eh?"

"What signs? WHAT IS A SURPRISE?" asked John, somewhat hysterically, with a horrible suspicion.

The D.I quirked his mouth, gesturing to the wall behind him, "We've got a framed copy and everything. Set it up right next to the photo of Sherlock in a shock blanket."

John calmly excused himself, walking over to the aforementioned framed certificate with a soldier-like gait.

CERTIFIED EXTRACT OF AN ENTRY OF CIVIL PARTNERSHIP  
>Date and place of Civil partnership registration:<br>Thirteenth December 2012 Old Marylebone Town Hall  
>John Hamish WATSON Sherlock HOLMES<p>

Taking a deep breath, John closed his eyes, turning away slightly before looking back.

Nope.

It was still there.

Mycroft Holmes. I will kill you.

Drinks in hand, Donovan and Anderson approached with a slight awkwardness.

"Well, congratulations I guess," started Sally, still unsure how to feel about the _freak_ finding someone before _her. _

"I don't know how you put up with that frea—, sorry," she winced, "_Sherlock_, but you're decent John, not like he is. Just don't let him change you, yeh?"

With practiced precision, John inhaled deeply, his voice calm and clipped but containing a certain tremulous force that he had reserved for his army days.

"We're not married."

Anderson regarded the Doctor with a knowing look, "Already regretting it then?" he quipped.

"You can't regret something that hasn't happened!" shouted John, military enforcement forgotten.

By the exchange of looks between the two yarders, John could tell he had lost.

Burying his face in the palm of his hand, the Doctor sighed.

"Why is there even a party going on," he groaned, "it's not as if Sherlock is one of the favourites around here."

"Betting pool haul," replied Anderson, slightly raising his glass, "Lestrade and a bit more than half of the yarders bet you two were shagging."

"Right."

Military gait resumed, John walked towards the drinks table.

At the same time, Sherlock, having already drawn the conclusion of his older brother's doings, stood disdainfully to the side, taking inventory of the several wallets and ID's he had pickpocketed from the unknowing officers.

Sensing the presence of an approaching figure, _(female, average weight and height, slight hesitation to the step. Ah, Molly)_ the consulting detective glanced sideways to confirm his deductions.

"Hi."

Sherlock sighed. He would have to talk to her then. How pedestrian.

With a quick glance, he took in the figure of the forensic pathologist.

_Smiling, although it's absent from her eyes. Faking it then, most likely upset but hiding it for the sake of being a part of the ridiculous party thrown by the force to celebrate their own stupidity. Eyes bear signs of tenuous rubbing, tear stain still evident on right cheek, so she's been crying. Ice cream stain on left sleeve where she's used it to wipe her mouth, an educated guess at chocolate judging by the remains on the corner of her mouth. Conclusion, something has rendered her upset in which she wishes not to share with her co-workers._

"So," continued Molly with a mock playfulness, "you and John then. You. Like John."

Sherlock frowned, unsure on the nature of the conversation.

"I enjoy his company," replied Sherlock cautiously.

Molly let out a mournful chuckle, "I should have known. I mean, you two were always together, serves me right to lose the sixty pounds for betting against it."

In the silence that followed, the pathologist reached up to twirl her hair before abruptly stopping.

"Oh god," she moaned, "what am I doing, you're married now."

Sherlock sighed. So this had been the goal of the conversation. How dull. It was obvious that the partnership between he and John was a fabrication. John was directly exhibiting the behaviour atypical perhaps not of one in a unionship but definitely of one in a unionship as _new_ as the proclaimed one and neither of them had ever, to his knowledge, alluded to anything sexual between them.

"We're not married," stated Sherlock with an air of boredom.

"Oh right, sorry, _civil partnership_ then," winced Molly, walking away as John Watson approached.

Sherlock turned his head, acknowledging his friend.

"I don't suppose we could burn the certificate, file for an annulment."

Sherlock shook his head, "No point, Mycroft will just reinstate it."

John groaned, "Isn't there any way you can, you know, reverse this? Do one of his cases or something, pull some of your power as his brother."

The consulting detective arched his fingers beneath his chin.

"We could trap him. Set up a large container, prop it up with a stick attached to a string and put a cake underneath it," he mused darkly, earning a small fit of giggling from both the detective and the doctor despite themselves.

Mike Stamford, an occasional medical consultant of his own for Scotland Yard, approached the pair, Lestrade and a small group of other yarders in tow.

Sherlock narrowed his gaze.

"I take that you don't actually have a case for me?"

Lestrade shrugged, grinning, "Nah, well we just needed a way to get you two down here for the party."

Scowling, the consulting detective turned around, coat ends whirling behind him.

"Hey, where are going?"

"Home." Sherlock intoned, heading towards the glass doors.

The group chased after him, Stamford pulling him aside.

"Aww, come on, you've just gotten married, come have a pint with us."

"We're not married," pipes John, although it is largely ignored.

Sherlock curled his lip in disgust.

"Do you really think that's wise? The group of you aren't exactly over capacitated in the brain cell department."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, turning instead to the more bearable of the partnership.

"John, you up for a pint? My shout."

The Doctor, deciding that one, he needed something alcoholic in his system, and two, he may as well pull a free drink out of what was a lost cause, nodded in defeat, "Yeh actually, I could go for a drink."

"No," shouted Sherlock, halfway out the door, "there's tea at Baker street."

John sighed, "Not the same thing Sherlock. "

No doubt he wanted him to help him with an experiment or bounce his ideas off him. Either way, he needed a drink and the last thing he needed was to encourage the idea that they were married by obliging like a married man.

The consulting detective turned around, frowning, "But I require your assistance tonight and you don't perform as well when you're drunk."

Around them, the yarders sniggered.

John, feeling sorry for his existence, drooped in resignation and headed out the doors of Scotland Yard before tackling his taller flatmate to the ground.

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><p><strong>A little fast-paced and slightly cracky, I know I know, but other than that tell me what you think?<strong>

**(and yes, I do enjoy making fun of Mycroft. Make no mistake though, I love him) **


End file.
